


i will not save the world (let me save you)

by writerofamestris



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerofamestris/pseuds/writerofamestris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a while, takes what seems like minutes or days, but you feel her relax. Her fingers lace through yours, and she does that thing she did when you were teens, and you were afraid and she was unsure: her thumb touches your wrist, over your quickening pulse, and she counts each beat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i will not save the world (let me save you)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thanks for reading. I'm always lurking around, but it's been a while since I published anything —this little piece, in fact, will be my first contribution to AO3. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> The tittle was inspired/taken from I Will Not Save the World, by Jerome Rothenberg.

When it’s all over, you drive her home, glad she still lacks a license (still needs you, if only for this).

Between traffic lights, your eyes seek her and your lips part. Nothing. There are a dozen questions lodged somewhere between your tongue and your vocal cords, but Jessica’s silent and you stay silent, too. It’s not uncomfortable, the lack of words; she’s there, beside you. Alive.

_Alive, alive, alive…_

Her hand rests on the car’s console; a pale fist that’s too small for the strength it packs. She stares at the city, the cars, the people —you wonder if she wonders about bliss and ignorance, but you know she does: there’s Before Kilgrave and After Kilgrave.

(Before Kilgrave, your apartment was Jessica’s home; and some nights, after a long day, you sat on the couch, watched a movie and fell asleep together. Her bare knee against yours was a promise of… something you couldn’t label —a riddle and an answer that filled you with anticipation.)

A stranger wouldn’t notice, but you recognize her stance, the tension along her jawline. The walls are rising fast: fight or flight, and she would never fight you.

You hesitate — _too much, too soon?_ —, then the brief halt ends and you place your hand over hers.

It takes a while, takes what seems like minutes or days, but you feel her relax. Her fingers lace through yours, and she does that thing she did when you were teens, and you were afraid and she was unsure: her thumb touches your wrist, over your quickening pulse, and she counts each beat.

(Is counting heartbeats less ridiculous than reciting street names?)

The drive continues in silence.

There are a dozen words lodged somewhere between your tongue and your vocal cords, but when you park in front of her apartment what comes out is this: “I’ll call you.”

“Trish…” Jessica shakes her head, smiles —a soft, rueful smile that slowly curves one corner of her mouth, then disappears. “I’ll answer.”

_Fight or flight_ , you think.

(Maybe, this time, you’ll make her fight you.)

 

* * *

 

The nightmares don’t start that night.

(They started long ago, after a desperate knock, when you opened your door to find a expensively-dressed, blood-marred Jessica Jones. Her world had fallen apart, and yours fell with hers.)

The nightmares don’t start that night, but they worsen: you see Ruben and Hope, and you taste their blood, and you clean their blood, and you taste Kilgrave, too.

You stumble, barefooted, into your bathroom and strip. The water is scalding, hot enough to burn; you clean your body until it’s raw and red, and you don’t allow yourself to cry, not this time.

(Not when Jessica won’t, and she has it a hundred times worse.)

 

* * *

 

 

You said you would, but you don’t call her. 

(Terror stalls your hand when you think she might not answer; when you think that the bridge between her world and yours in only crossable in life or death situations.)

Instead, you text her from work. Your producer is babbling about ratings and polls, pleased, and your assistant is tweaking tomorrow’s run-down.

You write a message and press send; there’s nothing better to do.

**Trish – 10:32 AM:** If you had to choose between interviewing another musician or another chef...?

**Jess – 10:37 AM:** I wouldn’t be caught choosing in the first place.

**Trish – 10:37 AM:** Because choosing between unfaithful spouses is so much better!

**Jess – 10:43 AM:** There’s more… action.

**Trish – 10:44 AM:** Jess!

**Trish – 10:44 AM:** Gross!

Every time a notification lights up your phone’s screen, you pretend not to be counting the minutes; pretend not to know Jessica’s sitting in a destroyed apartment, probably kissing the cheapest bottle of alcohol she could find.

You let the camaraderie lull you, instead; let it bloom until it feels like old times: she’s answering and teasing and she’s not hiding, yet, so you play along.

(You’ll make her fight you.)

**Author's Note:**

> Once more, thanks for reading!
> 
> I plan to expand this, maybe. Continue exploring Trish, and her relationship with Jessica: slowly, in a vignette sort-of way. We'll see.
> 
> I'm nyrihaz on tumblr. Feel free to message me and talk, if you want. =]


End file.
